UNDINE REMEMBERS
"'A Highland laddie lives over the lea;
A laddie both noble and gallant and free,
Who loved a lassie as noble as he--
A bonnie sweet lassie; the maid of Dundee.'"
MRS. GRAHAM glanced up from her sewing, with a smile.
"What a sweet voice that child has," she said; "with training I believe
she would sing remarkably well."
"I love to hear her singing about the house," said Miss Jessie, also
pausing to listen to the clear young voice; "I wonder where she learned
all those old songs. I remember that ballad, but I haven't heard it
since I was a child."
"She probably picks them up from Jim," Mrs. Graham suggested; "he is
always singing about the place."
"I don't think I ever heard Jim sing this one," said Miss Jessie,
reflectively. "Susie, I do wish we could find out something about the
child's family. I feel sure she has been brought up among people of
refinement."
"She is a very attractive girl," Mrs. Graham agreed, "but if she has
relatives it seems incredible that they should never have made the
slightest effort to find her. Donald and I were talking about her last
night. He thinks that any relatives she had must have been killed in the
earthquake. It seems the only explanation. There is nothing for us to do
but wait patiently in the hope that Undine may some time be able to tell
us everything herself. I confess I should be very sorry to part with
her; she has been a great help and comfort since Marjorie went away."
"She has indeed," said Miss Jessie, heartily. "I have grown very fond of
her, and I think she cares for us, too. We should have another letter
from Marjorie by this time."
"Yes, Jim has gone for the mail; he may bring one this afternoon. It
does my heart good to know the dear child is having such a happy
holiday. I would like to write and thank Mrs. Randolph for all her
kindness to Marjorie; she must be a lovely woman."
"I am sure she is, and the son must be a nice boy, too, judging from
what Marjorie says. Our little girl has made some good friends, as I
felt sure she would."
Mrs. Graham rose, and began folding up her work.
"I must go to the kitchen to look after Juanita," she said. "It is a
lovely afternoon. Why don't you get Undine to wheel you out in the sun
for an hour?"
"I think I will," said Miss Jessie, with a glance out of the windows at
the cloudless sky and brilliant winter sunshine. "Ah, here comes Undine.
Undine dear, I think I will go out for a little while."
The bright-faced, rosy-cheeked girl who entered the room at this moment
was a very different being from the pale, timid, little waif of four
months earlier. She had grown at least two inches, and the clothes which
had hung loosely about her in her first days at the ranch had now become
a tight fit. At Miss Jessie's request she smiled, and came hurrying to
the side of her kind friend.
"It's a glorious day," she said; "it makes one happy just to be alive.
I've had such a wonderful ride. I went as far as the railroad, and saw
the West Bound pass; it was two hours late. I'll get your warm coat and
some wraps and we'll sit behind the playhouse. You won't feel the wind
there, and it will be heavenly."
"Undine," said Miss Graham suddenly, when the two were comfortably
established in one of their favorite nooks; the invalid in her chair,
and her companion on a rug spread on the ground; "where did you learn
the song I heard you singing when you came in from your ride just now?"
"I forget which it was," said Undine, looking puzzled. "Oh, yes, I
remember--'A Highland Laddie Lived over the Lea.' I don't know where I
learned it--isn't it one of Jim's songs?"
"I don't think so, dear, but we can ask him. I never heard you sing it
before."
Something of the old, troubled, far-away look crept into Undine's face.
"I don't know how I remember things," she said, slowly; "they just come
into my head sometimes. Now that I think of it, I don't believe I have
ever heard Jim sing that song. I must have heard it somewhere, though."
Miss Graham said nothing, and there was a short pause, which Undine
broke.
"You and Mrs. Graham don't like to have me talk about the things I can't
remember," she said, a little wistfully.
"Only because we don't want you to distress yourself and try to force
your brain. I have always told you I was sure the memory would come back
some day."
"I think it is coming soon," said Undine, softly. "I keep having dreams.
I dreamt of my mother last night."
There was a quiver in the girl's voice, and Miss Jessie leaned forward
and laid a kind hand on her shoulder.
"Tell me about it, dear," she said, gently.
Undine drew a deep breath that was almost a sob.
"It was a beautiful dream," she said. "My mother and I were in a dear
little room, all furnished in pink and white. I don't know where it was,
but it seemed quite familiar in the dream. I was unhappy about
something, and my mother kissed me, and put her arms round me. She had
such a dear, beautiful face. Oh, Miss Jessie, do you suppose my poor
mother was killed in that dreadful earthquake?"
"My dear little girl, we cannot possibly know that; we must have
patience. Have you had other dreams?"
"Yes. The other night I dreamt I was playing with a boy in a swamp.
There was a black woman in the dream, too; she scolded us, but I wasn't
a bit afraid of her. Do you think perhaps they were people I used to
know?"
"I don't know, dear; it may be possible, but you mustn't let these
things worry you. You are happy here with us, are you not?"
"Happy!" cried the girl, with sparkling eyes, "I never expected to be so
happy anywhere. As long as I live I shall never forget all you and Mr.
and Mrs. Graham have done for me, but I can't help wanting to remember."
"Of course you can't; that is quite natural. We all want you to
remember, too, but we must have patience. The more you strain your
brain, the longer it may take for the memory to come back. You have been
a great comfort to us since Marjorie went away; I told her so in my last
letter."
"I am so glad," said Undine, smiling. "I promised Marjorie I would try,
but of course I knew I could never take her place. Oh, Miss Jessie, you
said I might read Marjorie's last letter. It came when I was out, you
know, and I didn't hear you read it to Mrs. Graham."
"So I did, I am glad you reminded me, for I had forgotten all about it.
It was written from the place in Virginia where she has been spending
the holidays, and tells all about their Christmas festivities. It is in
the right-hand drawer of my desk--you may read it whenever you like."
Undine glanced at the book in Miss Graham's lap.
"If you don't want me for anything, and are going to stay here for a
while, I think I will go and read it now," she said; "I love Marjorie's
letters."
"Very well, dear; I want to finish this book before we begin the one we
are going to read together. It won't take me more than fifteen minutes."
Undine scrambled to her feet.
"All right," she said; "I'll be back before that. Oh, Miss Jessie, isn't
the air glorious to-day? It makes me feel so happy and excited; just as
if something were going to happen."
Undine tripped away to the house, and Miss Graham, as she opened her
book, heard the clear young voice singing:
"'A Highland laddie lives over the lea;
A laddie both noble and gallant and free.'"
The song died away in the distance, and Miss Jessie became absorbed in
her story. It was very still, and not a sound came to disturb her until
she had turned the last page. Then she closed the book, and looked up in
surprise.
"How long Undine takes to read that letter!" she said to herself, in
some surprise.
Another ten minutes slipped away, but Miss Jessie was accustomed to
waiting patiently--she had done little else for the past eight years.
"Susie must have kept the child for something," she decided, and settled
comfortably back in her chair to await Undine's return.
But it was not like her sister-in-law to detain Undine without sending
some explanation; neither was it like the girl to remain away so long.
At the end of another ten minutes Miss Jessie began to be a little
curious.
"What can be the matter?" she said uneasily, her thoughts reverting to a
possible accident to her brother, who had gone to try some new horses
that afternoon. "I think I'll wheel myself back to the house and find
out."
But at that moment she caught sight of her sister-in-law coming towards
her across the lawn. Mrs. Graham was looking cheerful and serene as
usual, and carried some sewing in her hand.
"I thought I would come and join you," she said, as soon as she was
within speaking distance. "It's much too lovely to stay in doors.
Where's Undine?"
"I don't know," said Miss Jessie, "I thought she was with you. She went
in half an hour ago, to read Marjorie's last letter, which I had
forgotten to show her, and hasn't come back since."
"I haven't seen her," said Mrs. Graham, looking a little annoyed, "but
then I have been in the kitchen with Juanita. Undine ought not to go off
like this, and leave you alone so long."
"She never did such a thing before," said Miss Jessie, anxiously. "I
wish you would go and see where she is, Susie."
"Oh, she is all right, I am sure," Mrs. Graham maintained, but she
turned back towards the house, nevertheless, for it had also occurred to
her that it was unlike Undine to neglect her duty.
There was not a sound to be heard when Mrs. Graham reached the house and
although she called Undine several times, she received no answer.
"Where can the child be?" she said, beginning to feel a little
frightened, and she hurried to Undine's room. The door was open, and her
first impression was that the room was empty. She was turning away
again, more and more puzzled by the girl's mysterious disappearance,
when her eye was caught by a heap of something white lying on the floor
by the window, and in another moment she had hurried forward, with an
exclamation of dismay, and was bending over Undine, who lay, white and
unconscious on the floor, with Marjorie's letter clasped convulsively in
her hand.
When Undine opened her eyes she was lying on her bed, and Mrs. Graham
was bathing her forehead, while the faithful Juanita plied a palm-leaf
fan and held a bottle of smelling-salts to her nose. For a moment the
girl gazed about her in a kind of dull bewilderment; then a look of
recollection came into her eyes, and she started up, with a sharp cry.
"I'm not dead, I'm not dead! Oh, tell them it isn't true! I'm not; I'm
not!"
"Lie down, dear," said Mrs. Graham in a tone of gentle authority. "Of
course you are not dead; you fainted, that is all. You are better now,
and if you lie still for a few minutes you will be all right."
"But the letter said I was dead," persisted Undine, wildly, and she
fixed her big, terrified eyes on Mrs. Graham's astonished face. "It
said Barbara Randolph was dead, and her mother put flowers on her
grave."
Mrs. Graham was beginning to be seriously alarmed for the girl's reason,
but she made an effort to appear calm.
"My dear child," she said, soothingly, "you don't know what you are
saying. Barbara Randolph is the daughter of the lady with whom Marjorie
has been staying; she died long ago; she had nothing to do with you."
"But she didn't die, I know she didn't!" cried Undine, sitting up,
despite all Mrs. Graham's efforts to keep her quiet. "I knew it when I
read the letter. For one minute I remembered something horrible. I don't
remember it any more now, but I was so frightened, and--oh, Mrs. Graham,
I was so terribly frightened!" And the poor child burst into a fit of
wild, hysterical sobbing, and clung passionately to her kind friend's
neck.
* * * * *
Miss Jessie pushed her wheeled-chair out onto the porch, and strained
her eyes in the gathering dusk, in the vain hope of seeing some
approaching figure. Fortunately the January evening was warm, but even
if it had been cold she would scarcely have been aware of the fact. She
was very anxious, and this long suspense of waiting was hard to bear.
It was more than two hours since Undine had regained consciousness, and
in all that time the girl had scarcely uttered an intelligible word. She
had passed from one hysterical fit into another, and Mrs. Graham and
Juanita were at their wits' end. For almost the first time in twelve
years Miss Jessie realized the awful loneliness of their lives. "Donald
must surely be back soon," she told herself, trying to be patient, "and
Jim will be here with the mail before long. Oh, that poor child--what
can it all mean?"
There was a slight sound behind her, and Mrs. Graham, too, stepped out
on the porch. She was looking pale and distressed.
"How is she now?" Miss Jessie whispered, anxiously.
"I think she has fallen into a doze; she must be quite exhausted, poor
child. She has had a terrible shock of some kind."
"Do you think it can have been caused by anything in Marjorie's letter?
She must have been reading it when she fainted."
"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Graham, clasping her hands
nervously. "She spoke of that Randolph girl--the little girl who was
killed in the earthquake, you know. Oh, Jessie, you don't suppose--"
Mrs. Graham did not finish her sentence, but the two women looked at
each other in the dusk, and both their faces were pale and startled.
"I must go back," said Mrs. Graham in a hurried whisper; "I dare not
leave her long. When she wakes she may remember; I think her memory is
coming back. I am afraid you will take cold out here."
"I am not cold, but I will come in soon. I am waiting for Donald and
Jim. I must warn them not to speak loud; it might startle her again."
Mrs. Graham made no further objection, but went back into the house and
Miss Jessie folded her hands and waited.
Five, ten minutes passed, and then came the sound of distant hoofs. With
a sigh of intense relief, Miss Jessie sent the wheeled-chair gliding
smoothly off the porch, and across the lawn. The hoof-beats drew nearer,
and now she heard voices. Was it her brother or Jim, and who were the
others, for she distinctly heard more than one voice?
"Is it you, Donald?" she called, and in the still, clear air, her voice
was audible an eighth of a mile away.
"No, Miss, it ain't Mr. Graham, it's me," came the answer in Jim's
well-known voice. "I've got some folks with me."
Miss Jessie waited in silence while the hoofs and voices drew nearer. It
was no uncommon thing for strangers to stop at the ranch, where they
were always sure of a hospitable reception and a night's lodging. She
was glad Jim was not alone. Perhaps the visitors, whoever they were,
might be able to help, but how she could not imagine. It was nearly
dark, and the first few stars were beginning to glimmer in the evening
sky.
The horses were very near now, and she could distinguish three figures,
one was Jim Hathaway, the other two were strangers.
"I beg your pardon, Madame." It was the elder of the two strangers who
spoke; he had sprung from his horse, and taken off his hat. Even in the
dim light Miss Jessie could see that he was a gentleman. His companion
she noticed was much younger, scarcely more than a boy indeed, and he,
too, was regarding her with eager, questioning eyes.
"I must introduce myself," the gentleman went on, courteously. "I think
you may have heard Marjorie speak of me. I am Dr. Randolph, and this is
my nephew Beverly."
Miss Jessie gave a little joyful cry, and held out both hands.
"Is it about Undine?" she whispered breathlessly. "Have you come for
her, and is it really true that the child is your niece?"
* * * * *
It was some time before Undine awoke from the heavy sleep of exhaustion
into which she had fallen. She opened her eyes, gazed about her vaguely,
and murmured, "Mother! I want Mother."
"Yes, dear, I know," said Mrs. Graham, softly kissing the girl's hot
forehead. "Your mother isn't here, but she is safe and well, and you
shall go to her very soon."
Undine smiled faintly, and then a troubled look came into her face.
"I forgot her," she said, dreamily, "I forgot my mother for a long time,
but I remember now, and I want her--oh, I want her." And she stretched
out her arms in helpless longing.
Then Mrs. Graham moved aside, and some one else bent over her.
"Babs," said a low, tremulous voice, "Babs darling, don't you know me?
It's Beverly."
With a great cry of joy Undine started up, and in another second she was
clinging convulsively round her brother's neck.
"Beverly," she sobbed, "oh, Beverly, I remember; I remember everything.
It's all come back; poor Aunt Helen, that dreadful, dreadful time! You
thought I was dead, and you and Mother put flowers on my grave; but I
wasn't dead, I had only forgotten. Hold me, Beverly, hold me tight; I'm
so afraid I'm going to forget again."